The Dogs in the Street

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Someone swept the room beforehand,” Caslin finished for him.

  “Of course, that is pure conjecture. Schmidt may well have minimised his own forensic footprint. We might never know.”

  “Any indication of a struggle or that anyone else had been present, recently?”

  “None that I could see. Schmidt’s fingerprints were all over the laptop. Nice, clean prints. None were overlapping.”

  “I know how someone might read that. Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

  “I’m only stating what I found. It is a very tidy crime scene, from a forensic point of view. Everything fits as it should.”

  Caslin let that sink in. “About Broadfoot…”

  “Aye?”

  “I’ll be discreet…did he…press you, at all?”

  The Scot drew breath, taking a moment to select his own, in reply, “He’s certainly taken an active interest, over and above what I’ve become accustomed to expect.”

  “Did he mention me, at all?”

  “No. Why would he?”

  “Just curious,” Caslin replied. “Did you find a mobile phone, in the room?”

  “No, we didn’t. He doesn’t strike me as a technophobe.”

  “Me neither. He had a laptop so, if we follow the logic, it would be unlikely he didn’t have one.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Robertson agreed. “That point didn’t cut much ice with our boss, though.”

  “Thanks, Iain. I’ll catch up with you later.” Caslin hung up and replaced the phone in his pocket. Despite the unanswered questions revolving around inside his head, he couldn’t help but wonder whether the DCS was, at least in part, justified in taking the stance he had. Currently, a massive team was allocated to a manhunt that was apparently, no longer required. Their quarry was dead. The remaining leads were circumstantial and every course of action within the investigation appeared only to muddy the waters further. The fear of the dark paranoia that had so plagued his past, also threatened to resurface. Why do I struggle to trust everything that comes before me, he thought to himself?

  Knowing he was expected back at Fulford Road, Broadfoot wanting his moment of camera-time, Caslin set off on the short walk back to the station. En route, he puzzled over the loose connections thrown up between the key players. Foley appeared to have had contact with Coughlan and Fairchild only days before they were both killed and yet, with another body in the morgue, Caslin was left wondering whether or not the last play in this game had already been executed?

  Chapter 14

  The intercom buzzed, breaking his focus. Caslin stood up, placing the folder on the coffee table, alongside his Macallan. Another blast came through as he reached the front door. He pressed the button.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Aiden.”

  “Come on up,” Caslin said, unlocking the communal access door. The sounds of both tourists and traders, out on Stonegate, carried through the system. The summer season had been good for business this year. He then unlatched the door to his apartment, leaving it ajar as the sound of the outer door swinging shut and footsteps in the stairwell, came to him. Caslin was already back in his seat, in the living room, when Reece let himself in.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Reece said, entering.

  “All good,” Caslin replied, over his shoulder but without looking up. He had already returned to scanning his paperwork.

  “I saw your boss on the TV earlier.”

  “Oh aye, he was as crisp as ever.”

  “You didn’t fancy some airtime?” Reece asked with humour. Caslin scoffed.

  “Do me a favour. Grab a glass,” he indicated the kitchen. Reece did so, returning with a tumbler, moments later. He sat down as Caslin put the file back down and took the stopper from the bottle, pouring a second glass of scotch. Reece nodded his appreciation as the glass was slid across the table towards him and sat back.

  “I know he didn’t release everything but there looks to me, as if there’re a few loose ends,” Reece said, inclining his head so he could scan the top sheet of Caslin’s file. The latter made no attempt to stop him.

  “More than a few.”

  “Dublin? What’s that about, then?” Reece asked, gesturing to the pile of paper. Caslin had been reviewing Coughlan’s notebook, trying to get to grips with her coded entries.

  “Looking at travel dates, trying to tie them in with a code one of the victims appeared to document everything with. We have her entering and leaving the UK on dates that fit into the numbers.”

  “May I?” Reece asked. Caslin knew he shouldn’t but in all honesty, he was pretty stumped having made little headway in cracking it himself. He passed the top two sheets of paper across. Reece scanned through them. “Walk me through it.”

  “Well, for example, we have her flying from Dublin to Manchester on the 24th of last month, hence DM2408.”

  “Straightforward enough, so far.”

  “Correct. With help from the Border Agency, I can tell where she was travelling to or from but it’s what she was up to over there and while she was here that I’m struggling with. She was investigating something or someone, meticulously documenting her movements and presumably, who she met.”

  “The problem is identifying these people?”

  Caslin nodded, “You’ll see there, on the 27th of August, she travelled to, or met “C” and on the 30th, “F”.”

  “Any idea who or what those initials are?”

  “We have evidence to tie her death in with another and I reckon these initials are relating to the same person, Christopher Fairchild. She’s used the initials separately in order to throw anyone who comes across it, off the trail but I think it’s possible.”

  “Reasonable assumption,” Reece agreed. “Did she have known contact with him, then, this woman? What was she, to him?”

  “I can’t put them together. She was a journalist.”

  “Investigating what?”

  “I don’t know that either and I’ve no proof she was in actual contact with him but they had a mutual contact, so it’s not beyond the realms of possibility they were three parts of the same puzzle,” Caslin said, not wishing to name Father Foley.

  “Right,” Reece said, still reading through. “And this one here, “RF”. Who is that, do you think?”

  “No clue,” Caslin said honestly. “I can’t find a person, town, city or hotel within her circle that matches those initials.”

  “I reckon “PN” refers to a guy in Dublin that I believe she was looking into. He’s been mentioned elsewhere by another witness but as to her interest, I don’t know that either.”

  Reece flicked his eyebrows and exhaled, “You’re not getting very far, are you?” He passed the papers back and Caslin made to lay them atop the file. “The photo, is that your killer?”

  Caslin glanced down at the picture of Schmidt, now at the top of the pile. He nodded, passing it to Reece before putting Coughlan’s papers back into the folder.

  “Heinrich Schmidt, as my DCS read out at the press conference.” Picking up his glass, he saw off the remainder and poured another. Reece lingered on the photo for a few seconds and then passed it back. “And you’re right. No, I’m not getting very far.”

  “What on earth have you been doing for the past week? I remember you as being fairly bright but, I guess, that was back in the day.”

  Caslin laughed, sitting back and lifting his feet up onto the coffee table. “What can I do for you, Aiden?”

  “I stopped by to say my farewells. There doesn’t appear to be any exposure to Renton in this so, I’ve been reassigned. We haven’t noticed anything untoward in our portfolio, hack attempts or that sort of thing. They’re seeing my presence as a bit of a waste of resources.”

  “Ahh…that private sector efficiency thing again,” Caslin said dryly. “You never got back to me on Fairchild’s contact with your company.”

  “Oh yes, well remembered,” Reece said, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking
out a slip of paper. He passed it across to Caslin, who accepted it graciously. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though. He’s a bit of an arse to deal with.”

  Caslin smiled, unfolding the paper and noting the name and telephone number underneath. He read the name aloud, “Martin Champion. How well do you know him?”

  “Well enough to not want to. Like I say, he’s a dick.”

  “Okay, thanks for that,” Caslin said, re-folding the paper and slipping it into the folder in front of him. Sitting back, he nursed his scotch as the streetlight outside the window flickered into life. “So, are you going to tell me why your file in Human Resources is restricted or not?”

  Reece sucked air through his teeth, shaking his head slightly, “Long story.”

  “It’s also flagged you know?”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. My DCS wanted to know why I accessed it.”

  “Did he give you a reason for asking?”

  “No. He was largely disinterested and asked only in passing,” Caslin said, knocking back his drink. “He was lying, obviously.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I came across your name and you weren’t relevant to either case. Now though, you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?” Reece met his eye. Despite being apart for many years, he knew when his old friend was demanding an answer, albeit with a calm assuredness.

  “It’s not suspicious, not really,” Reece began. “They were looking for new faces, people without baggage who could go on operations without fear of compromise. I met the criteria they were looking for and they didn’t want me leaving footprints within the force. That’s why I was taken off straight from Hendon…and why I couldn’t tell you. It wasn’t a choice…just how it had to be.”

  “Now that I look back, I figured it went down something like that. So, what happened?”

  “I’ll spare you the details but, let’s say I took to the life. It was exciting, emotionally crippling at times, if I’m being honest but I was good at it.”

  “Until?”

  Reece laughed, seeing off his own scotch, “Until I got in over my head.”

  “Sounds like you,” Caslin said with a smile, pouring Reece another.

  “Anyway, things came to a point and I was pulled. That bugged me, I wasn’t happy about it and ran my mouth off…the end. I was considered…how did they put it? That’s right, strategically compromised, was the phrase I was quoted.”

  “You fucked up, then?” Caslin said with nod.

  “Thank you, yes. I fucked up,” Reece confirmed. “No need to look so happy about it. I figure they don’t want details of my operations to come out and that’s why they placed the restriction on my file.”

  “Sounds like it was a bad time.”

  Reece agreed, “Not great but we all have them. Like I said before, ancient history. Any chance of you filling in your blanks?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Karen didn’t just tell me about your marriage situation.”

  “Unsurprising,” Caslin said, staring into his glass.

  “You got burned as a DCI.”

  Caslin nodded slowly, deliberately, “What’s done is done. If you let it eat away at you, it sours your soul.”

  “Profound.”

  “I read it on a beer mat, once.”

  “You have a grip on your excesses?”

  Caslin looked up, meeting Reece’s gaze, and raised his glass, “This is my only vice.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve been to the bottom,” Caslin said softly, “or pretty close to it. I looked elsewhere, for a while.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yeah. At first it was a release, you know? Then there was an incident…”

  “The shooting?”

  “You’re well informed,” he said.

  Reece shrugged, “People talk.”

  “Well…painkillers take the edge off.”

  “And now?” Reece asked, sipping his drink.

  “Now?” Caslin paused, mulling over his answer. “Now, I have my moments but I’ve accepted my situation. My counsellor talks a lot about embracing the emotion, putting an end to deflection and distraction. That kind of shit.” Reece laughed. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just western society and their approach to drug dependency. That’s all. Did you know, during Vietnam, the amount of American G.I.s taking Class As was at epidemic levels. Pretty much out of control. I mean, they were freely available, cheap and let’s face it, who could blame them. And yet, tens of thousands of soldiers came home from that war and there wasn’t a corresponding spike in recorded addiction or drug-related crime.”

  “Your point?”

  “This whole addiction argument. How come an army of addicts didn’t swamp the US. There were some, perhaps many but the majority went back to their lives and got on with it. How much is physical and how much a state of mind?”

  “What’s your advice, then, Sigmund?” Caslin asked, smiling.

  “Choose.”

  “Choose?” Caslin repeated.

  “Yes. Choose what you’re going to be and be exactly that.”

  Now Caslin laughed, “Simple as.”

  “Simple as,” Reece replied, nodding. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’d better make a move. I’ve got a train to catch.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Straight down to Heathrow. I’m booked on a red-eye,” Reece stood, downing his scotch, he placed the glass on the table and reached inside his pocket. “I’ve got something for you, for old time’s sake.” Taking out a USB memory stick, he passed it to Caslin who looked at it, slightly perplexed.

  “What’s this?”

  Reece smiled, “You remember, graduation year from Uni, we went to Kings Place for that concert?”

  “Of course, I do. We saw Antonio Meneses, playing-”

  “The Tchaikovsky recital that won him international plaudits, absolutely. Anyway, he still tours Europe and I was lucky enough to catch a performance, in Berlin, a couple of years ago. I purchased a copy on the night. It’s well worth a listen.”

  Caslin eyed the memory stick, tossing it gently in his palm with the excitement that only someone with a love of the Cello would appreciate. Fond memories came back to him and he found a smile creeping across his face.

  “Thanks, Aid. Thanks a lot.”

  Reece clapped him on the shoulder, “I figured you’d be pleased, although, had my doubts that you might be into hip-hop, grime or something else, these days. What with having kids and all that.”

  Caslin’s smile faded, “Don’t. It’s hell.”

  Reece laughed, “It’s been good catching up, Nate. Maybe next time I’m in town, I’ll swing by.”

  “Anytime. You know that.”

  “Give my love to Karen, when you see her,” Reece said, making his way to the front door.

  “I will,” Caslin said. The two men shook hands and then warmly embraced before Reece departed. Caslin closed the door behind him. Returning to the living room, he fired up his laptop. The response of the SSD drive was rapid and he plugged in the memory stick. There was only the one file present and he double-clicked it. Within seconds, the sound of an expert cellist came from the speakers and Caslin sat back down. Thinking of his old friend, he couldn’t help but wonder what Reece had done in the past. Unable to trust him as he once had, Caslin resolved to enjoy this moment and lose himself in a memory. It felt good.

  Reopening the folder in front of him, he flicked through Emily Coughlan’s code, once more. PN was almost certainly a reference to Paraic Nelson and she had either met Nelson or followed him, on multiple occasions. Without any tangible cause to bring in Father Foley, the only lead currently unexplored, beyond a scan of the Police Service of Northern Ireland’s database and a few phone calls, was Nelson. Picking up his mobile, Caslin called Jimmy Sullivan.

  “Jimmy. Do you have any contacts in the Gardaí?” Caslin asked, raising his voice slightly over the top of the music.
>
  “One or two,” Sullivan replied, hesitantly. “What is it you’re looking for?” Caslin paused as several notes appeared to drop out of key and, internally, he voiced his displeasure. Perhaps the performer wasn’t quite what he once was or, more disappointingly, quite as good as Caslin remembered. “Nate? What is it you’re after?”

  Caslin refocused on the conversation, “Sorry, Jimmy. Something distracted me. I’m going out to Dublin, to see Paraic Nelson…and I’ll need a little help.”

  “When?”

  Caslin looked at the time, it was approaching eight o’clock, “Tonight, if I can get a flight.”

  Chapter 15

  The flight out of Leeds landed in Dublin, shortly before eleven o’clock. Passing through passport control with minimal delay, Caslin, with only carry-on luggage, was one of the first to reach the arrivals zone of the airport. A small group of people waited patiently beyond the secure gates to welcome friends or relatives. Glancing around, unsure of what he was expecting to see, certainly not a card with his name on it, he walked forward assessing the waiting figures. Scanning the overhead signage, he set off for the taxi rank. This late in the day, he’d need to find a hotel in the city having nothing arranged.

  The automatic doors parted before him and he stepped out into a summer evening on the east coast of Ireland. It had been raining but for now, was clear with the whiff of moisture on the warm breeze.

  “Nathaniel Caslin?” a man asked, coming to stand alongside. Caslin glanced to his left, taking in the newcomer. He was in his early fifties, powerfully built but more by way of natural bulk than muscle. Caslin replied, nodding.

  “The very same. And you are?” he queried, offering his hand. The man took it, in a brief handshake.

  “Detective Hanlon. Seamus to my friends and any friend of Jimmy Sullivan’s, is a friend of mine. I’ve got a car in the short stay,” he replied, inclining his head in the direction of a multi-storey car park. “This way.” They crossed the main thoroughfare under a green traffic light, causing consternation from several drivers who were forced to stop. Once into the car park, Hanlon led them up one flight and over to the bays marked for fifteen-minute waiting only. “This one,” he told Caslin, pointing to a green Ford and unlocking it. Caslin placed his bag on the rear seat, and got into the front. Once both were in, and the engine was running, Hanlon turned to him before engaging a gear. “What is it you are looking for from Paraic Nelson?”